Chanda's Wars (18 page)

I
N NO TIME
, the hippo highway takes us far from the river. The weight of the beasts has made deep grooves on either side of the path. The rebels' prints stand out in the loose soil kicked to the center.

We trek through scattered woodland. Clusters of dead and dying trees, the bark of their trunks gouged and ringed, tell tales of passing elephants. Old baobabs invite us to cool off in their hollow cores. But who knows what's lurking inside?

We're making good time, gaining confidence, when a twig snaps behind a thicket. We freeze. Is it rebels? Before we can breathe, an antelope bounds in front of us. Nelson yelps and scrambles up a tree. The antelope leaps into the air, kicking its heels, wiggling its rump, and disappears into the brush.

“It could have been a
leopard!
” Nelson exclaims.

My heart's in my mouth, but I pretend I'm Mr. Lesole. “If it'd been a leopard,” I say, “you'd have been in real trouble. Leopards are climbers. They leave carcasses hanging from the branches.”

“Don't talk down to me.” Nelson drops to the ground. “In the old days, predators came through the posts. Grampa went on hunting parties. He killed a lion once.”

“I'm sure he did. Once. In the old days.”

Nelson kicks the dirt. “I'm just saying, there's predators in the park. Anything can happen.”

I picture the children sitting on Mr. Lesole. “Leopards wouldn't go after the two of us,” I say gently. “Lions might, but not likely, unless they're sick. And hyenas are scavengers. They attack if you sleep unprotected.”

“Right. Then they'll rip off a chunk of your face.”

“That's why you make yourself a little hyena hideaway. A circle of thorn branches, and you're fine.” I'm not sure why, but saying out loud what I've learned from Mr. Lesole seems to relax Nelson. It's almost as if he thinks I really
am
an expert. Who knows, if I can fool him, maybe I can fool myself.

We carry on. As we walk under a marula tree, a family of
baboons pelts us with fruit pits. For a second, we're ready to dive to the ground. But we catch ourselves.

“Baboons,” Nelson says sheepishly.

“Well done.”

The hippo highway bends right, toward the scent of sweetgrass, but the rebels' tracks continue north. Something's new along the path. Tufts of fur. Blood. My insides tighten. Blood. That
will
attract predators.

“The rebels must've killed something in the grasses back there,” Nelson whispers. “They're dragging the carcass to their campsite. We must be close.”

He's right. Soon footprints fan out from the main route. The trail breaks up. The air fills with the smell of roast game and a ripple of voices. To our left, a fig tree towers over an ancient baobab. Their massive ground roots intertwine. Aerial roots from a baby fig, growing in the rotted crown of the baobab tree, hang to the ground, some strangling the baobab's bulbous trunk. We take cover.

“Mandiki's near enough to touch,” Nelson whispers. “If we're not careful, we'll stumble right onto him.”

“How could we be so careless? If we'd looked to the sky, we'd have seen smoke from their firepit.”

Nelson shakes his head. “I doubt it. They're probably
waving palm leaves to break it up. That's what cattle rustlers do.” He grabs hold of a thick aerial root. “I'm going to climb up, see what I can see.”

“Wait!” I say quietly. “You'll be in the open. Check for a way into the baobab.”

We circle around it. Like the others we've passed, the baobab tree's over twelve feet across, with an opening near the base of its trunk. We look through the narrow entrance. A shaft of light beams down from above; the core is hollow from top to bottom. “Climb up from the inside,” I say. “You'll be invisible.”

Before we enter, I toss handfuls of dirt into the opening and step aside. If there're animals in there, better to find out now. The earth sprays against the far sides of the hollow. Silence. The baobab's empty.

Nelson squeezes inside. I follow. The sky is visible through the rotten treetop. Three aerial roots, tough as vines, dangle down from the hole. Nelson tests his weight on the thickest. It holds. He's about to climb, when I grab his arm. “Nelson, above us!” High over the baobab, a giant beehive hangs from a branch of the neighboring fig tree.

“Who cares?” he says. “It's getting dark. The bees'll be settling in for the night.”

I shiver all the same. I hate bees. I hate something else, too. As my eyes adjust to the shadows, I see a colony of bats, hanging upside down in the gloomy upper crevasses of our hollow. If only I'd thrown the dirt higher. “Bats,” I whisper. “Dozens and dozens of bats. What'll we do?”

Nelson snorts. “Are you an insect?”

“No.”

“Then relax. At least I worry about things that can eat me.”

He hoists himself up, one hand over the other, his feet pressed into the thick aerial root, securing his weight. His head comes level with the bats. The hollow is six feet across. Nelson passes up the middle between them. They stay sleeping. He pokes his head through the rotted hole, gives a quick look around, and slides back in a rush.

“We got inside just in time,” he says. “The camp's only fifty yards away, behind the next row of thornbushes. Most of the men are resting; that's why we didn't hear much.”

“What about the children?”

He motions me to the ground. Outside, a crunch of twigs. And another. We lie on either side of the baobab's opening and peer out. Child soldiers are all around, collecting kindling. I see a girl hunched over in a soiled nightie. She turns my way. It's Iris. I almost don't recognize
her. Her face is puffed. Her beautiful hair dirty, matted, the braids undone, the beads stripped away. But she's alive.

My eyes race for Soly. Where is he? Is he alive too? I spot Pako, just off the path. There beside him, nursing a stubbed toe—it's Soly. He lifts his head. Looks around. Can he tell I'm here? Or is he just scared of the bush?

“Keep moving.” An older boy gives Iris a shove with the end of his rifle.

Iris trips face-first into the dirt. Scrambling at ground level, she glances in our direction. She opens her mouth as if to cry out. Nelson seizes. I put my finger to my lips.

The older boy gives her a kick. “I told you to move it.”

“I'm moving, I'm moving,” she says. She gets up with her kindling and disappears with the other children behind the thornbushes.

“Can your sister keep a secret?” Nelson asks nervously.

“When she wants to.”

“Meaning?

“We're safe.”

Together, we guard the opening. Mandiki must be proud, I think. After weeks of marches and raids, he's escaped to the wild with child slaves and plunder, far from even the nearest safari camp. No wonder he's having a
feast. All at once, I'm hit with an idea. Mandiki thinks he's escaped? Well, he's in for a surprise. I burrow into my knapsack, fish out my map and cell phone.

Nelson cranes his neck. “What are you doing?”

“Getting the army. We've found Mandiki's camp. I'm calling in his position.”

“What?” he says in disbelief. “They won't believe you.”

“So? I can try.”

He rolls his eyes. “Your phone won't work anyway. We're in the wilderness.”

“Let me tell you something,” I say evenly. “Safari camps like Mr. Lesole's need mobiles for their customers. They've got transmission towers all through the mountains. There's better reception here than on the cattle posts.”

I turn on the cell. I press Talk. Then a horrible thought. I turn it off fast.

“What?”

“Nelson—if I get word to the army, if they listen—they'll attack with mortars, missiles, and grenades. It won't just be Mandiki who's hit, it'll be the children, too. Before I call, we have to free them.”

I'
M NOT SURE
if my plan will work, but it's the only one we have.

Nelson's idea was crazy. “I'll use my slingshot,” he said. “A rock to Mandiki's temple, and he's dead.”

“Then what?” I demanded. “There'll still be all the rebels with machine guns and machetes. We'll be caught and tortured to death. Brilliant.”

Nelson thinks my plan will end up the same. Maybe. But at least it gives us a chance.

We lie on the ground, looking up through the baobab's core to the branches of the fig tree and the sky beyond. Dusk hangs in the air. The shadows of our hollow deepen. The bats rouse in a whisper of flight. I cover my face as they swoosh down around us, some flying out from the baobab's base, most funneling up through the hole at the top, a tornado of wings.

The sky turns navy velvet. There's a full moon to the west. Overhead, the branches of the fig tree are silhouetted against the stars.

From the campsite, sounds of a party. The rebels are getting drunk. Good.

We wait. And wait.

Finally, a sharp hand clap. The carousing stops. Mandiki's voice pierces the night air. “Gather the new recruits. Fetch me my ebony box. My friend, the Skull, has greetings from the dead.”

I wish I could see what's happening. Ah well, I'll see soon enough. Nelson squeezes my hand in the dark. I squeeze back.

“Now?” he whispers.

“Now.”

Nelson wriggles out of the baobab. In a few seconds, I hear him murmur, “All's clear.” He stays outside, guarding in case of patrols.

I take my cell phone, fumble it open. I haven't used it much; it should be fine. Still, the way Mrs. Tafa used to bang it off her tree, who knows? I feel the sticky tape, press down on the buttons.

There's a crackle in the connection, but Mrs. Tafa's voice comes through loud and clear: “Who, in the name
of the saints and ancestors, is calling at this ungodly hour?”

“It's me, Chanda.”

“Chanda! Where are you? I've phoned a million times. We're worried sick.”

“Shh, please, Mandiki's only a few hundred feet away.”

“Lord Almighty!” Mrs. Tafa whispers hoarsely.

“I need you to do something,” I say. “I'm going to hang up. When I do, wait ten minutes, then call me. I won't be picking up, so don't worry. Just let the phone ring. Let it ring and ring and ring.”

“What are you up to?”

“I don't have time to explain. Just do as I say. All right?”

“Whatever you want.” Mrs. Tafa's voice chokes. “We love you.”

“I love you too.” I hang up and stick my head out of the tree's entrance. “Okay, Nelson. We've got ten minutes.”

He slips inside, puts the cell between his teeth, and zips up the aerial root to the top of the baobab. He rests the phone on the lip of the rotten hollow and slides back down.

I check that the park map's in my skirt pocket, then go over the plans for the last time. How I wish we could use
the hippo highway, but it'll be full of beasts and rebels. “Mfuala Lodge is the nearest safari camp. It's twenty miles due west,” I whisper. “Once I get the kids—
if
—that's where we'll go.”

“Right,” he nods. “Aim for the jackalberry. It's the tallest tree around, past the campsite. I'll have caught up by then. If not, keep going, I'm dead.”

I seize up. “Don't be dead. I'm not like you. I can't travel far in the dark.”

He hugs me. “With the full moon, you'll be surprised. Anyway, no more talk. We have to get into position.”

I'm about to say something stupid, but I can't. His mouth's on top of mine. We kiss. And he's gone.

I'm off in the other direction. I stay crouched down, moving stealthily from tree to thicket. Nelson's right. It's amazing what I can see. Not just by the moon, but by the flickers of campfire glowing through the thornbushes. I move faster. Too fast. I trip over a stump. Pride, pride. Am I hurt? I can't tell. Every inch of my skin is electric.

I'm at the end of the thornbushes. I peak through the branches. Mandiki's pitched camp in a small clearing. There's a firepit at the center, the low flames shielded from above by a canopy of acacia boughs. Two girls on their
knees fan away whatever smoke remains; the skin and skeleton of an impala have been tossed to the side. Rebels are scattered throughout. Some of the men have passed out on the ground, empty bottles in hand. Others lounge against the tree trunks circling the clearing, stropping machetes or picking lice from each other's scalps. I see an older boy, lifting a swollen foot to the light of the flames. It looks like he's digging out chiggers with a penknife.

I spot Iris, Soly, and Pako among the newest and youngest recruits on the other side of the firepit with Mandiki. Mandiki's in a loincloth, his body slick with the blood of the impala. At least I hope it's from the impala. The spirit doctor's skull is twisting on his outstretched fist, its shadow snaking up a backdrop of vines and creepers.

I circle wide, careful to stay hidden.

“Tonight we celebrate victory, my little friends,” Mandiki swaggers. “Tomorrow we'll be in Ngala.” He wiggles two long fungal nails through the skull's eye sockets. The children cower. Soly clings to Iris. Mandiki snuggles the boney puppet against Soly's cheek. “Missing your family?” he smiles.

Soly sniffles.

“Uh-uh-uh,” Mandiki whispers. “Remember what happens to soldiers who cry?”

A flash of rage surges through me. Hurt my Soly, I'll
kill you, I think. No. Don't lose control. Don't. I race the alphabet through my head, and crawl through the night.

I reach the far side of the clearing. Slip through the vines. I'm behind Mandiki; he faces the children. I slide forward. As close as I can get. When the time comes, I'll have to act fast. Closer, closer. Nothing between them and me now but a stretch of weeds and a fallen tree.

Something slithers in front of me. I rear back on my hands. For a second, my head's above the tree trunk.

A child sees me through the weeds. “Ah! What's there? Something's there!”

Mandiki whirls around. I duck down. I feel his eyes read the bush. Hear his skeletal legs step toward me. Closer. Closer. Any second he'll be on top of me.

Iris distracts him. “General!” she pipes up. “It's a ghost crocodile, isn't it, sir?”

Mandiki stops. His feet turn in the weeds. “Who said that?”

“Me,” Iris says. “I'm right, aren't I, sir? It's a ghost crocodile.”

Mandiki pauses. “Yes, my girl.” The words hiss through his teeth. “It's a ghost crocodile. One of my spirit friends.” He chuckles. “What's your name, girl?”

“Iris, sir.”

“Iris.” He makes a gurgling sound. “What makes you so brave, Iris?”

“I'm a soldier, sir.”

“A special soldier. I like special soldiers.” He squats to the ground and pats his knee.

Before I can think what he'll do next—what
I'll
do next—a stir from across the clearing.

“General!” a rebel shouts. “There's something at the baobab.”

The camp falls silent. Then, cutting the night air, a ring.

“What the hell?” Mandiki leaps to his feet. “Who lost their goddam cell?”

Ring.

“It doesn't sound like ours,” the rebel says.

“Then whose is it?”

Ring.

Mandiki waves the skull in the children's faces. “Did that phone come from the dealer's in Tiro? Did one of you steal it? Did you call out when you were getting kindling?”

Ring.

“Answer me! Who's been playing with things they shouldn't? Whoever it is, I'll chop off your arms and legs. I'll toss your stump to the hyenas.”

Ring.

“Don't just stand there,” Mandiki yells to his troops. “Get it.”

Five armed rebels, two with flashlights, run behind the thornbushes to the baobab. In seconds, flashlight beams run up the baobab's trunk. They're guiding a rebel climbing an outside aerial root. He's high above the bushes.

Ring. Ring.
Yes, Mrs. Tafa! Keep ringing!

Mandiki whispers in the skull's ear, “Who's the traitor? Hmm? Who do we kill?”

The climber gets to the top of the baobab. The spill from the flashlights lights up the fig branch above. The giant bees nest.

Nelson fires a rock from the dark with his slingshot. The rock breaks a huge hole in the nest. Bees everywhere.

The climber swats at his face. He falls to the ground screaming.

“What's going on?” Mandiki yells.

The hive swarms the flashlights. The rebels holding them holler in pain. The beams flash in all directions. The rebels throw them high in the air. They hit the ground. The bush goes black. Stung in the dark, panicked, the rebels fire their automatic rifles into the air.

“Who's out there?” Mandiki shouts. “How many are there?”

The men at the baobab don't hear him. They're too busy screaming, firing. “Help! Save us! Help!”

Everybody dives for their weapons.

The men from the baobab run around the bushes into the clearing, the hive on their tail. Firebursts.

“Attack! We're under attack!”

Bullets fly through the air. The children at the firepit press themselves to the ground. The bees swarm toward them, but swing away when they get near the smoke.

Some circle wild, striking anything in their path. Others regroup, a deadly mass of stingers. They have a target: Mandiki—slick with the sticky sweet blood of impala. The hive dives at his head.

“AAA!!!” Mandiki shrieks. “AAA!!!” He lurches in circles. Bodyguards throw him a blanket. But he can't see. His face is covered in bees. His neck puffs up. His eyes swell shut. He swings at his head with the Skull. “AAA!!!” Mid-scream, he coughs. Chokes. Claws at his throat. He can't breathe. Can't even gasp. He staggers blind. Drops to the earth. Convulses. Bodyguards drag him to the bush. His head bounces off rocks.

Now everyone's running, howling, from the camp. The rebels shoot at god-knows-what. The children cling to their friends.

I look to the firepit. Iris has Soly and Pako by the hand. She's nodding in my direction. The boys' eyes bulge. It's as if they're living a dream. They scramble toward me, keeping low with the smoke. I wave them through the curtain of vines. We flee toward the jackalberry, the shouts and screams of the rebels disappearing in the bush behind us.

Nelson's waiting for us when we arrive. But he was right. We don't need him to see. The moon is large and luminous. It lights a thin cloud floating across it. Against the night sky, the cloud looks like the outstretched wings of a giant stork.

We rush toward the moon. The stork. Mama.